


Peter and the Crossroads

by JessamyGriffith



Series: Guardians of the Puck [3]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Hockey RPF
Genre: 1990s, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Angst, Bisexual Peter Quill, Brief mentions of Ronan the Accuser, Cancer, Difficult Decisions, F/M, Goalie Peter Quill, Hockey, M/M, Major Character Injury, Marvel References, OHL Priority Draft, Peter Quill Feels, Pre-Guardians of the Galaxy (2014), Teen Peter Quill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-12-02 13:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11510031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessamyGriffith/pseuds/JessamyGriffith
Summary: Meredith Quill, in Peter’s own opinion, is the best hockey mom and single mother in the world, bar none. But when Meredith gets sick, Peter has to choose: follow his dream and leave St. Louis for the Canadian Hockey League, or to sacrifice his chances at a career in professional hockey to stay with her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unlike the previous two relatively light-hearted fics in the series, this one is much heavier, as it deals with life-threatening illness. But the only way up, is through.  
> I researched as much as I could, but there may be inaccuracies re: medical research, treatment or symptoms.
> 
> Click through to notes at the end of the fic will give more info (spoilers) concerning Meredith's illness.
> 
> Again, though the fic is marked with slash pairings, it's basically Gen. Peter is a teen who likes guys and girls, but nothing really happens in this fic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's just your average nerd hockey jock, enjoying life and dreaming of going pro.

  **August 1996, St. Louis, Missouri**

 

A good, trashy bodice-ripper of a novel, Peter thinks, would be the perfect pick-me-up for his mom.

Like a raccoon to a spilled trash can, the yard sale sign draws him in. He slows from a jog to an amble and wanders up the short driveway of the house, catching his breath. Tugging his earbuds free, he surveys the jumble of goods laid out on card tables and blankets. Clothes, kitchenware - _there._ Books in battered cardboard boxes. He kneels and starts sorting. The outdated textbooks and soft-cornered detective stories are of no interest, but there’s lots of historical romance novels. ‘Fires of Winter’ looks especially torrid, but Peter knows but Meredith will read it - and then leave it in the break room of the hospital where she works as a nurse. She claims some of the doctors break the book spines so they always opened to the most embarrassing sex scenes, which, hey, sounded plausible from all the stories she’d ever told him about doctors. But more importantly, she’ll laugh at Peter’s gift. She hasn’t been quite herself since they got back from summer vacation at her parent’s house in Mississauga. Peter asks the price from the middle-aged man sitting in a lawn chair and nods in a considering way. He keeps browsing.

Old toys, golf clubs, knicknacks - oh, score! An old NES, with a shoebox of games! “Wow, this is pretty old-school,” he says. “What is it, ten years old?”

“More like seven,” the man says. Peter looks at the controller cords, some of the plastic splitting from wear and wrinkles his nose.

“Does it even work?” he asks.

The man shrugs. “Yep. Belonged to my youngest, but we got him the 64 for his birthday.”

Peter lifts his brows. “Nice. How much?” The guy’s obviously got money, if he can buy a system that just came out. He can afford to let this one go cheap. After all, it's a _yard sale._

The price is fair. But for form’s sake, Peter dickers amiably, both of them enjoying the rhythm of the back-and-forth. The bargain ends in Peter’s favour, after a long circumlocution involving old electronics from Japan. It helps that Peter’s got a vintage Walkman hanging from his hip. It’s not the one his mom gave him - that one’s getting pretty worn, so Peter saves it for big game days. But he always keeps a lookout for similar models at yard sales.

The man agrees to set the NES aside for a while. Peter fishes out some crumpled bills as a down payment so the guy knows he’s coming back and waves a cheery farewell.

Back on the sidewalk he looks ahead to the next stop sign, taps the Walkman’s play button and lets the driving sound of AC/DC’s _Thunderstruck_ fill his ears. He counts to three and sprints. At the corner he turns right and jogs to the next intersection. He finds a sign about fifty yards down, runs to that, jogs again, and sprints to another visual goal, trying blow through each start as hard as he can. Normal jogging is fine for general conditioning and stamina because goaltenders tend to play entire games unless they fuck up really bad. But he also needs to have explosive movements on the ice, so a lot of his training works on that.

Toronto and goalie camp this summer had been great, but Peter’s glad to be back home in St. Louis. It's his sophomore year at Ritenour and it’ll be good to be back with his school friends. He’s starting with a new hockey team, too. He’d made the jump from Minor to Major AAA, a year before most players manage it. He grins to himself. It’d been great, blowing the coaches’ minds at the tryouts. Still the youngest guy, but he’ll be sixteen this November. Still one of the smallest, though he’s finally starting to get that growth spurt his mom’s been promising since forever. He’s almost five foot six, and every inch can only help. But fresh out of goalie camp, with the list of drill and exercises Vlad gave him, he’d managed to beat two other goalies a year older than him to claim a spot on the Junior Blues.

Peter draws up at his usual half-way point, a small neighborhood park. There’s a concrete bench he uses for hop exercises, and he does his reps, thighs and ass burning. Peter knows he’s damned good goalie, but he’s gotta _maintain_ to keep his edge. He knows he’s probably going to ride the bench more this season than if he’d stayed down in Minor Midget, because he’s new and young and all that shit. But he’ll impress the coach every chance he can. If he gets lazy, it’d be a waste of all that effort he put in over the summer. And he’d be more likely to pull something, and missing games from injuries _sucks_.

On a level grassy patch, he does side to side leaps, landing on one foot. Closing his eyes, he does them again, training his mind to adjust and learn better balance. He slips once, but that’s why he wears black shorts - no grass stains. He works through his mental checklist of exercises, grabs a drink from the fountain and heads to the nearest ATM. Yeah, classic video games!

Triumphant and sweaty, he carries his booty home to the strains of _We are The Champions_ , appropriately. His mom is pushing the mower around their small front lawn but turns it off when she sees him. “What’s this? Yard sale? Nice.”

“You don’t need to worry about me whining for a computer for a while,” Peter says. “And we can play these together. It’s gonna be so cool.”

“So long as you still get your homework done.” Peter huffs a denial. He’s never slacked - not that Meredith would ever allow him to. She plucks a cartridge from the box. “Pacman? That seems about my speed. I remember playing this the year I was carrying you.”

“Whoa.” There’s a thought. “Oh, hey. There’s a bunch of boring football and baseball games. Wonder if we can trade them in at Gamestop?” He’d happily exchange all of them for one decent hockey video game.

“Good idea, big spender.” She ruffles his hair and wrinkles her nose. “Shower. You’re gross.”

“ _You’re_ gross,” he shoots back. “Nah, how about I finish up the lawn and shower after? Got another thing.” He holds up the Johanna Lindsey romance. “Look. ‘ _Lady Jenna swore no Viking brute would be her master…’_ ” He grins. “For your coworkers.”

“Perfect,” Meredith says, laughing. “Thanks, baby. They’ll appreciate it, I’m sure. After I’ve read it.” She reaches for the box. “Want some water?”

He backpedals. “I’ll get it. Take a load off already, Mom. I got this. You look like the heat’s getting to you.” He grins and hip checks her lightly as he heads into the house. “Tell me about how Lady Jenna gets kidnapped later.”

“How about I lend it to you after instead?” she suggests. “I know how you like your trashy romances.”

“That was one time!” he protests. “For… for a school project. Comparisons of genre writing for English.”

“Twice. That I know of,” she shoots back and Peter groans. There are some things parents never let you forget. Okay, so maybe he was… curious, and totally not trying to pick up sex tips. The historical romances were predictable but in a fun way, with all those manly men kidnapping feisty maidens. Meredith continues, “I’ve got the titles noted down for when I have to give interviews about your early life on Hockey Night in Canada.”

“Oh my _God_ , Mom!”

 

**September 28th, 1996. St. Louis Junior Blues, Midget Major AAA.**

It’s pre-game, and their locker room is contained mayhem. Home games are always good for morale, and this team is one of the most fun Peter’s been on. Something just clicked, and they are tearing it up on-ice and having fun off as well. Peter’s sitting shoulder to shoulder with Matheson, the other goalie. Matty’s shoulders are shaking and Peter’s biting the inside of his cheek as Nutley shouts on the other side of the room.

“Why the fuck does my stuff smell like peanut butter? Who the fuck did this?”

The guys are laughing and Peter can feel his face getting hot from stifling giggles.

Allan snags the jersey from Nutley's grasp and gives it an ostentatious sniff. “Man. Yeah. It’s making me a little hungry.”

“Yeah?” someone calls. “Hungry. Like it’s time for a little -”

“Peanuuuut,” Peter sings out, voice trembling with laughter. “Peanut butter, _jelly!”_

Someone hoots and Nutley glares as others start to sing along. “Pea-nut, peanut butter, jelly! First you take the peanuts and you dig ’em, dig ’em…”

“Oh you fuckers,” Nutley says. He glares at Peter. “It was you, wasn’t it, Quill.”

“Who, me? I’m just a simple netminder,” Peter says. Matty bumps him with an elbow, sniggering. “Anyway, you can’t prove a thing.”

“Fucking crazy goalies,” Nutley says. “I gotta wear this thing all game, you douches!”

“Aw, it’ll wash,” Matty says.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, Butters,” Peter says, relishing the red flooding Nutley’s neck at the name. Payback pranks were sweet. Peter’s jockstrap was still pink after the Gatorade dousing Nutley had given it last game. This afternoon, it had been the work of a moment to anoint the inside cuffs and neckline of Nutley’s home jersey with a thin film of peanut butter.

“Butters,” Allan says, savoring the name. “ _Butters._ ”

“Don’t you even -” Nutley begins.

“Better than Peanut,” Matty suggests. “Or Nutter Butter. Or Chunk Style. Ooh, how about Skippy?”

“Butters,” Peter says firmly before Matty gets carried away. Nutley looks ready to explode. “‘Cause you’re so slippery, right? And you might distract the other team. They’ll be craving some PB&J all night and won’t even know why.”

The newly christened Butters throws up his arms. “Fuck it. You are the worst. Both of you.”

“You know you can’t help loving your goalies,” Peter says, slinging an arm around Matty. “Resistance is futile.”

“And we’re just nuts about you,” Matty adds.

Growling, Butters jerks the jersey over his head. “What if I’d had an allergy, you dicks?”

“Nothing gets under your skin,” Peter says. “Well-known fact.” He smirks and bends to finish lacing his skates. Across the room, Lavelle is chirping Hamilton over his collection of hockey cards.

“Like, you’re eighteen, man, aren’t you a little old for this?”

“Nope,” Ham says, unruffled. “My dad gave me his set, and there’s a Topps Bobbie Orr. Worth a lot. It’s tradition.”

Peter, who only ever had cards that friends have given him because they had extras, shrugs. He has his favorites, but he’d never had the money for anything like a serious collection. It’s still interesting though. “Got a Lemieux double I can have? I like him.”

Ham grins. “His rookie card? Get lost. Anyway, thought you’d be into getting the goalie cards.”

“My interests are varied,” Peter says loftily.

“Anyway, the best card I got this year was MacKree’s,” Ham says.

“What, the Hab’s new left winger?” Allan says. “I didn’t think he was that hot. Has he even been in anything but exhibition games?”

Ham shakes his head. “You see him play when he was at World Juniors last year? Guy’s a beauty. Huge _._ Killer wristers. Takes no prisoners. He took the Granby Predateurs all the way to the Memorial Cup, _and_ got drafted by the Habs. They take their hockey serious in Montreal. Bet you my Bobbie Orr he doesn’t get sent down to the farm team even once. Fuckin’ _prodigy_.”

“Shit, yeah,” someone else says. “I saw one of his clappers blow through the netting! You hang on to that one, Ham, it’s gonna be worth a lot.”

“I’d rather have a Brodeur,” Peter says. “‘Scuse me, time to get my dancing pants on.” He plugs in his earbuds and moves to a less-crowded part of the room to begin working through arm block and catching movements, grooving along and mouthing the words. _Oh, oh, oh, it’s magic, you know, never believe it’s not so…_

No one on the team bothers him about his odd pre-game rituals anymore, though Allan keeps reminding him that music technology has moved on, and has Peter thought about getting a Discman? A couple of guys had tried chirping him about how they thought goalies had to be all Zen and meditate somewhere, but hey. He saves that for when they get on the actual ice. Dancing builds up his energy and loosens his nerves for the game, and if it works, it works. He’s been playing well. He does a few slide-steps, skates thumping into rubber matting, hip-checks Allan out of the way on the beat and drops into side splits. Allan sucks air through his teeth as he always does when Peter does this. “Man. Makes my junk ache just watching you do that.”

Peter just grins up at him. “A little flexibility goes a long way with the right people, dude. Try it sometime.” He winks.

Allan rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right, I’ll get right on it.” _If only you would_ , Peter thinks, but throttles the thought back. Allan’s into girls, and Peter’s not looking to screw himself over by outing himself as bisexual. Besides, getting a half-woody while wearing a jock is the fucking _worst._

Coach Scott comes in. “Christ, Quill, get dressed already.” Allan pulls Peter up, patting him on his shoulder pads. Peter puts away his Walkman and tugs his jersey over his head. He half-listens to the usual litany, straightening out his twisted sleeve, fingers lingering on his number. He’s not really superstitious, so his number tends to bounce between goaltenders he admires. This season, he’s number thirty, the same as Martin Brodeur, who awesomely backstopped the New Jersey Devils to a Cup last year. He choruses, “Yes, Coach,” with the rest of the team and they stand. Peter tugs his mask over his head, gathers his stick, glove and trapper and leads the team out to the ice. Time to kick some ass.

 

 

**October 3rd, 1996**

 

“Uppercut! Uppercut! Uppercut!” Asuka Varian shouts, mashing her game controller. She and Peter are sitting on the carpet, backs against the couch and elbows digging at each other as they play Double Dragon III. His best bud Josh is sliding off the couch laughing as Asuka’s game character lashes out. On screen, Jimmy’s head snaps back and he falls.

“Shit, will you stop hitting me, we’re on friendly fire mode,” Peter yelps. His health meter is blinking red. “C’mon, c’mon, let’s twin cyclone this last dude!”

In response, game-Billy Lee grabs Jimmy’s hair and knees him in the head. “Fuck!” Peter tosses his controller down as Asuka cackles and proceeds to clobber the last opponent. “Teamwork, ever heard of it?”

“Save it for your hockey, Petey,” Asuka says, smirking. “There can be only one.”

Josh catches his breath. “And the entertainment never ends with you two. I’m glad she’s on my side, at least.” His goofy smile is wasted on Asuka, still working on the next level, but Peter reaches behind her back to punch him in the thigh. He’s a little sorry things didn’t work out between Asuka and himself - he really likes Asuka’s feisty, take-no-shit manner. But whatever - when Peter had come back from summer in Toronto to find his two friends had become an item, he couldn’t hold it against them. But that doesn’t mean he won’t chirp Josh mercilessly when he gets all gooey.

Asuka’s solo run finally ends with Billy flying back and bouncing on the ground. She sniffs at Peter’s sarcastic cheer and stands. “Okay, we’d better go. I’ve still got that reading for English to do. Thanks for the game, loser.”

Peter fist-bumps her and sees them to the door. He watches them head up the street, fingers tangled and shoulders bumping. With a sigh, he turns to the kitchen. He may as well start on dinner, his mom will be home soon.

He’s dumping the kidney beans into the pot of chili he’s making when Meredith comes home. “Smells good, sweetie,” she says, brushing a kiss over his hair before washing her hands. She smells faintly of the antiseptic they use at her hospital. “Do anything interesting today?”

She preps a salad and they eat at the kitchen table. He tells her about his latest assignment in AP math and how Asuka crushed him at Double Dragon. “Oh, hey,” he says. “I was wondering - you know I want to get my beginner’s permit. Do you want to teach me, or should I try a driver’s ed school?”

Meredith shakes her head. “Driving already. Where did the time go? Of course I’ll teach you road skills, baby. Getting your licence is important, and it’ll be useful.” Pleased, Peter tells her about Josh’s trials behind the wheel with his dad, making a story of it. She listens, stirring her chili more than eating, nodding. She’s quieter than usual, her eyes shadowed.

“Long day?” Peter asks. “Want to kick back, maybe play some Nintendo with me? Or something. I can do the dishes.”

“It’s your turn to do them anyway,” Meredith says with her usual spark. It dims quickly and she draws a deep breath. “Maybe later. Peter, I’ve got something to tell you.”

The tone of her voice send a chill down Peter’s spine. He sets his spoon down. The overhead light is bright on Meredith’s hair, dark blond with the occasional glint of silver. She rearranges her bowl, turning it slightly while she talks, not meeting his eyes.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been feeling a bit rundown for a while. I didn’t think anything of it - I’m pretty busy all the time, what with my nursing and trying to keep up with you, kiddo. I thought it was just something left from that flu I had back in the spring, and then I thought maybe my age was just catching up with me. A year after the big four oh.”

 _You’re not old_ , Peter wants to say, but he can’t get his mouth to move. Her recitation is dry, faintly bitter.

“It wasn’t that. I wish - anyway. I found a lump - here.” She touches the side of her neck. “It could have been anything. An infection, reaction to a cold. But I had it tested last week.” Peter remembers the band aid. He’d thought it was a bug bite, and had teased her about it. His stomach is churning with dread. He doesn’t want to know. He has to. His eyes meet hers, hazel green to blue. “Peter, it’s cancer. Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.”

Peter knows he is in their kitchen, empty bowl of chili in front of him. He’s sitting on on an old wooden chair, and yet he’s falling. _Cancer_. His mouth is dry. “What - what does that mean?” _No._ He shakes his head, hard. “I mean - what’s going to happen?” _To you._

Through a growing buzz in his ears, he listens as Meredith explains that they’ll be doing more tests - staging, it’s called - to see the extent of the cancer and decide what and how much treatment she’ll need. The lymph node will be removed surgically; there will chemotherapy and possibly radiation treatment to follow. _Because of course they use radiation to kill cancer,_ Peter thinks, _that’s so fucking stupid, radiation causes cancer -_ He blinks himself from the circling of his thoughts. Meredith has paused, eyes still on him. “It’s going to be bad, Peter,” she says. “The treatments - I might not have the energy to do our usual things. I’m sorry.”

His neck muscles are tight, and his head shake is a jerky motion. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

“I’m going to call Mom and Dad tonight. I’m thinking that Mom can stay with us for - for as long as it takes,” Meredith says.

“No!” The volume of his voice startles Meredith. “No, I’m going to take care of you.”

“Peter,” Meredith says, the gentle tone slicing through him. “You can’t. You have school, and your friends, and hockey. I’m not letting you drop everything just because I’ve been dealt a shitty hand. Your life is important too.”

“But, _Mom._ ” He doesn’t mean to sound like a little kid, the protest just comes out sounding weird, like he’s going to burst into tears. It sounds like, _Don’t you trust me to help?_ when he really means _like hell I’m just going to do my thing and ignore that fact you’re sick._

As if she is reading his mind, Meredith reaches over to squeeze his clammy hand. “Baby. I know this is huge. I know you’ve got my back, you always do. We’re a team. But - you’re going to need help.” Her smile is crooked. “And it’s been a few years since Mom’s got to mother me full-time, but sometimes the team’s got to call up some experience. Out of retirement, even. Just in case.”

 _Just in case_. It’s a hard shot, and Peter takes it full-body. “You don’t know, though. You won’t know until after the testing.”

“Yes. But it’s cancer. It’s here. And all we can do is fight through.” She pats his hand. “I’ll get you some brochures from the hospital, we’ll talk about what to expect.”

What Peter wants is for his mom not to be - be a _nurse_ right now, like he needs fucking counselling. “Yeah. Okay.” Peter abruptly stands up, knocking his chair back. “I - I gotta…”

“It’s all right,” Meredith says and Peter wants to shout at her, because this is exactly polar opposite from _all right_. “Go do whatever. Take some time.”

Peter finds himself in their backyard with his goalie stick in his hands. Dumping a bucket of pucks on an old trash-picked piece of Formica-topped countertop, he takes his first shot at the plywood backdrop he and his mother had built together two years back. He’s gotten accurate enough that even when he’s tired, no netting is needed to keep balls or pucks from straying. The hollow thud shakes the barrier, but the neighbors are pretty good about him doing his two hundred shots a day as long as it’s still daylight. He shoots harder than normal, forehand, backhand, over and over, stopping to gather pucks and begin again. A large chunk of plywood splinters and drops away, exposing the inner layer. He aims for it, chipping away until a puck sticks in the softened spot.

 _My mom has cancer_. The thought burns through him, making him more and more angry. He retrieves pucks, lines them up and shoots, going for the weak spot. The puck gets knocked through, exposing a hole. He swings with more force, but his arms are shaking and the shots are getting wilder. He’s breathing hard, almost sobbing with it. He braces his legs, stick going way back and he uses whole twist of his body with the shot. There’s a cracking sound as his stick slaps the Formica and the puck flips in an awkward arch, not even reaching the backdrop. The blade of his stick dangles from a twist of tape, broken.

Shit. _Fuck_. Peter slams his stick on the countertop, then two-hands it and brings it down again. The crack of the paddle snapping away from the handle isn’t enough and he wheels around to throw the remnant at the backdrop. “Fuck!”

He breathes heavily, nails biting into his palms. A movement brings his head up. Meredith leans against the backdrop, arms crossed. “I’d ask if it’s safe to come out now, but I think there’s already been few casualties.” Peter’s face heats, looking at the damaged plywood, the sad remnants of his stick.

“Sorry,” he mutters. Meredith shrugs.

“It’s replaceable.”

“You’re not,” Peter says before he can think, but it’s true. “You’re not,” he plows on, “and you can’t just - “ _Die_ , his brain supplies and he flinches away from the thought. “Promise me,” he says, and he knows he can’t ask her not to die, they don’t know what’s going to happen. But there’s a kind of grief thickening his throat. “Promise you’ll fight this. I -” _Need you._ “I need you to fight this.”

“You know I will,” Meredith says. “I’ve got everything to fight for, and you in my corner, baby.”

The old pet name is what has him moving into her arms. “It’s not fair,” he gets out.

“No. No, it’s not.”

They stand together a long moment before he moves back to look into her face, only a little below his own these days. “We’ll beat this,” he says, forcing certainty into his voice.

She strokes hands down his arms. “My little star. Always a fighter.”

“Learned from the best,” he says.

“Darn straight,” she says. “You know this isn’t the end. Look at Mario Lemieux. Same cancer, and look at him now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re tougher than Super Mario,” Peter says.

Meredith smiles. “A tribute, indeed. Thanks. Now.” She dangles a set of keys. “Want to go for a drive?”

Does he want to get away from the house? Fuck, yes. He nods, but blinks when she hands him the keys. “Uh. You know I don’t have my permit yet.”

“Duh,” she says. “We’re just going to tool a little around the neighborhood, no big roads.” Her blue eyes glint in challenge. “Live a little, kiddo.”

“How do you even know if I can drive?” Peter asks. Meredith rolls her eyes.

“I was a teenager once upon a time. If you haven’t tried joyriding in one of your friend’s cars at least once, I don’t even know how you could possibly be my son.”

Well, when she puts it that way. Not that he’s admitting anything. “My own mother, leading me into a criminal lifestyle,” Peter says. Her answering smile is a relief. “I’m horrified.”

“We going or not, hotshot?” Meredith asks. Peter tosses the keys once and catches them in his fist.

“Heck, yeah, we’re going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The relusive Ronan shows up at last, Peter's future nemesis. I know the name MacKree will make people who are into Overwatch smirk, but what could I do? My hands were tied when it came to giving him a surname that reflected back on Marvel universe. Anyway, he doesn't play a part in this fic, but will in future fics.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween, Peter's sixteenth birthday, hockey - life goes on, even when his mom is sick.

Time seems to flow in fits and start over the next few weeks. Meredith’s neck acquires a surgical dressing after the excision of the lymph node. Thanks to Meredith working as a nurse at Mercy Hospital, the staging and testing goes quickly. Meredith is determined to keep things as normal as possible - she works, takes him to practices and his games on weekends and squabbles with him while they play Techmo World Wrestling on the NES. Peter even gets his beginner’s permit and he accepts his teammates’ chirps with a grin when he arrives at practice with his mom riding shotgun. But it doesn’t keep him from spacing out when he remembers. At school, his friends notice that he’s been more quiet lately and finally ask him what’s up.

“Shit. That’s terrible, dude,” Josh says. He looks sympathetic but awkward. “Seriously. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.” He grunts as Asuka elbows him.

“What he means is, is there anything we can do?” she says. Her tone is flat but her expression is earnest. Peter can’t help but feel grateful.

“Nothing right now,” he says. “She starts chemo this week, but she says it probably won’t be that bad for a while.”

“Whatever you need, man,” Josh says. Peter manages a smile.

“We’re good for now. Thanks.”

But the grinding worry is always there, except when he takes to the ice. There, the chill air of the rink drives everything else except hockey from his mind. Peter doesn’t tell the team about his mom - it’s totally selfish, but he wants hockey for himself, separate from the mess of the rest of his life. Besides, considering how Josh and a few others at school had reacted, he doesn’t want things to be weird or start getting pitying looks. It’d drive him crazy and put him off his game. So his pre-game routine changes - he boxes up one more problem in his head and leaves it at the changing room door. He listenes to his music and lets his mind go clean, white as the ice and he’s able to joke with the other guys and focus on hockey.

The first round of chemo isn’t too terrible. When he gets home from school, he overhears the tail end of a discussion she’s having on the phone. He turns on the TV, but hovers near the doorway to the kitchen, listening.

“No, it’s a bit more complicated than the usual type, Dad. Dr. Hanson did mention there was a new treatment being developed in Toronto, but it’s still in the clinical trial phase.”

Meredith is quiet for a moment. “Well, yes, I thought about it. The costs for the trial would be paid for, but for extra doctor visits? Routine patient costs? Unless I’m moving back permanently, I probably won’t qualify for Canadian health, and even then it takes a hundred and fifty days to kick in. And my insurance is good, but it doesn’t cover out-of-country expenses like that.”

A pause. “Dad, I know you’ll help, but I can’t ask you guys to do that for me. You need your retirement money. Besides, there’s Peter. I can’t take him away from his school and friends, especially not in the middle of the school year. And there’s his hockey to think of.”

Silence. “Oh, he’s doing so good, Dad, I wish you could see him. I need to ask someone to tape one of his games and send it to you.” She’s smiling now, Peter can hear it in her voice. He hesitates, then sits on the couch and waits until the murmur of her voice stops. He turns off the TV. Meredith is sitting at the kitchen table when he enters. He jitters, not sure what to say. “You okay? How was it?”

“You know, even though I’m a nurse, I actually hate having needles stuck in me,” Meredith says with a smile. “I’m fine. A bit tired, but I think that’s because I couldn’t sleep much last night. Don’t look so panicked, Peter, I’m not going to suddenly fall apart.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “I’m thinking pasta for dinner. There’s some meatballs in the freezer. You up for that?” The fridge is stuffed with a bunch of stuff they’ve pre-made. Peter’s not a bad cook or anything, his mom’s taught him how to fend for himself. It’s just that it’s convenient.

“I’ll handle the pasta, you do the salad,” she says and holds up a hand to forestall his argument. “No, really. Though I appreciate the royal treatment.”

Because she really does seem fine, he only chirps her about being a princess. It’s the right thing to do, he sees, as she relaxes and follows him into the kitchen.

But three days later, she is too tired to go to work and only picks at a grilled cheese sandwich. The bathroom cabinet acquires a new bottle - anti-nausea. It helps, and she’s able to return to nursing, though her duties are scaled back

By Halloween, she’s back to her usual self and insistent about doing up decorations. They argue about who’s going to carve the pumpkin, and because Peter’s idea about doing a Jason Vorhees design (goalie mask! Awesome!) is way cooler than Meredith’s heavy-metal Kiss one, they wind up getting two.

Peter dresses up as Jack Burton to pass out candy to neighbourhood kids, complete with a rubber knife to clench between his teeth. But no one knows what his costume is. His responses to queries get shorter and shorter as the night wears on.

 

‘ _Are you Rambo?’_

_‘No, I’m Jack Burton.’_

_‘Who?’_

_‘You know, from Big Trouble in Little China_. _’_

_“What?”_

 

_‘Look, kids, it’s Indiana Jones!’_

_‘Nope. Where’s my hat and whip?’_

 

_‘Oh, Jean Claude Van Damme!’_

_‘No, but thanks, I do have nice guns, don’t I?’_

 

_‘Hey, it’s Chuck Norris!’_

_‘Oh my god, no!’_

He can’t get that annoyed, since Meredith laughs harder and harder at each guess until the heavy mascara from her Elvira makeup runs. “Some people just have no respect for classic movies,” Peter tells her and funnels a fistful of leftover candy corn into his mouth. Meredith pulls the bowl away, slapping at his hands when he tries to wrestle it back.

“No, _no,_ bad Peter. Never mind the sugar crash, just think of your diet, kiddo. And next time just do a Jason Vorhees costume,” Meredith advises him. “It’s definitely your thing.”

 

 

The second round of chemo goes much like the first. Meredith spends a couple of days at home, exhausted and complaining that if she had to feel like she had a terrible hangover, she’d rather have had the fun first. It’s not so bad, Peter thinks. Until Meredith starts losing her hair.

Meredith gives him a rueful look when he catches her pulling a huge wad of blonde hair from her brush. “Well, it’s not like I didn’t expect this. I hope when it grows back, I’ll wind up with nice silky smooth hair. Curls never worked well in the humidity down here.”

Peter goes along with the joke. “Total dandelion head. Yeah. You hoping for a Jennifer Aniston look?”

Meredith cocks her head, looking at her reflection. “I’m probably more a Phoebe. But I’m thinking - Cher. I could color it.”

“Whoa, now, don’t get carried away,” Peter protests. “You can’t deprive the world of blonde jokes.”

She nods. “Wise.”

Her mouth is set, the corners quivering. It’s awful. Peter hugs her from behind. “Doesn’t mean we can’t test-drive a few new styles. Or… do you still have the Elvira wig from Halloween?”

She reaches up to smack the top of his head. “Horrible child. I’m sending you back. I still have the return envelope.”

“I burned it,” he dead-pans. “No take-backs.” He smiles at her, bright and fond. He goes to his room. He lies on his bed and claps his headphones on his head. Listening to an Awesome Mix tape at full volume, he shoves his fist against his mouth until the painful pressure of teeth on skin drives the tears back.

 

 

Peter barely notices that he’s missed out on getting an invite for Team USA’s World Juniors tryouts. Whatever. It’d be exceptional if a sixteen year-old made the team, much less a goalie. As his mother keeps reminding him, goalies take time maturing. At least he isn’t a complete short-ass anymore - almost five foot seven. Instead, he keeps working on his skills, focussing on hockey, the tension living in his shoulders slowly dissipating when he gears up for practice and games. The locker room talk is mundane and comforting, all chirps, discussion about other teams’ players or NHL games.

It’s still a sharp stab every time he looks up during a game to find his mother in her usual spot, wearing a knit beanie that she with all her Canadian-ness insists is called a toque. Her hair is nearly all gone now, but she doesn’t look ill, not really. Just tired, constantly tired. A few times he’s seen her in the kitchen, sorting through all the paperwork and receipts for her treatment, lips tight and eyes shadowed. But she laughs and talks to Coach and his teammates just the same, and no one suspects. _Good,_ part of Peter thinks. He doesn’t want anyone thinking he’s got a weak spot, that he’s going to crack under pressure. He’s been starting every other game, he doesn’t want to ride the pine because - because of his - anyway. He’s got this. He’s fine. He tugs his mask down as he skates out, and it’s just another barrier.

 

 

November eleventh, Peter’s birthday, falls on a school day, and his friends give him cards and stupid gifts. There’s a new set of dice from the D&D club, sports socks from soccer buddies, blank cassettes for making new mix tapes. It’s pretty great. For dinner Meredith takes him, Asuka and Josh to Chuck E. Cheese’s - Peter’s choice, for which he is mercilessly chirped by Josh. It’s lame, Peter knows this, but lame in the _best_ way, as Josh finds out when he’s subsumed in a skeeball battle against the ultra-competitive Asuka and Meredith.

Peter does have an actual party on the following weekend. Meredith insists. “You only have a sweet sixteen once, kiddo,” she says over Peter’s groans. Sweet sixteen, really? But post-game on Saturday, he and a bunch of school friends head to a small state park with a lake. It’s a gorgeous day, about fifty five degrees and sunny. Being the awesome mom she is, Meredith ponies up a case of beer and supervises the crowd of teens, holding car keys and warning that if anyone wants them back, they’d better stick to soft drinks. Hot dogs, hamburgers, a boombox, ultimate frisbee matches and soccer - it’s perfect.

Peter tells Meredith so when they are back home, and she smiles up at him from her spot on the couch. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, kiddo. Okay, park your keister. I know I already got you new skates for your actual birthday, but I did get something else.”

Intrigued, he plops himself next to her, make the couch bounce and grinning as she swats at him. He makes grabby hands. “Presents! Presents!”

“Child,” she says fondly, and hands him a small box. He strips the paper from it as fast and messily as he can, grinning at her eye roll. His smile fades a bit when he opens the box. There are loops of twisted silver chain inside. He draws it out, the pendant swinging free. He looks at her, back at the necklace. Holding the pendant in his palm, he touches it gently. A goalie helmet, engraved with a star on the forehead. The back is smooth and shiny enough to reflect light into his eyes.

“You haven’t settled on a number yet - I thought when the time came, we could have the backside engraved,” Meredith says. “But in the meantime, I thought the star would work.”

“Yeah.” His voice is rough. _Little star_. Her pet name for him since he was a kid wobbling around on skates declaring he’d be the next Gretzky. “Nice call, Mom. I hope it wasn’t too expensive.” Meredith doesn’t talk much about money with him, but with only one parent, household expenses and his hockey, it’s always been a little tight. It’s probably worse now, with her illness. But he’s not going to mention that, he won’t spoil this moment.

“I thought about gold, but it seemed a bit…” She lifts a shoulder. “Flashy? Euro-trashy? I dunno. It’s sterling silver, so it’s pretty low maintenance. Just wearing it should be enough. Not for games, of course, but -”

“It’s perfect,” Peter says. “Put it on for me?” The necklace is long enough for him to just pull over his head, but that’s not the point. He bows his head, feels the brush of her hands against the hair curling at the nape of his neck as she clasps the necklace. They both look at the pendant lying against his t-shirt. Peter leans forward to hug her. “Thank you, Mom. Love you.”

“You too, little star,” she says.

 

 

The third round of chemo comes and goes. Meredith complains that everything is starting to taste metallic, but that could be because she’s getting sores on her gums. She’s not eating as much as she should. More prescription bottles go into the bathroom cabinet. It’s strange watching Meredith pop all the pills, as if she were downing Skittles.

Peter takes over cooking for dinner as often as he can, looking up new recipes on the school library’s computers in his quest to make something that will help build up weight and be appetising as well. Hey, he’s an athlete, but he knows that protein shakes are not always the answer. His attempts are not always successful, as the screeching smoke alarm in the kitchen will attest, but Meredith is always appreciative. At least on the nights of absolute failure he can get in the last of the hours needed for his intermediate driver’s permit, as they head out for extra supplies or on rare occasions, Waffle House.

Everything feels disconnected. Peter’s not hanging out with his school friends as much and he’s in danger of not being an honours student for the first time in forever. The only thing that’s keeping him going is hockey, and being there for his mom. But the pretence that everything is all right, that everything is normal is wearing paper-thin. The colorful scarves covering her head, the shadows under her eyes and her new fragility terrify him on a level he can’t even describe. It’s - they’ve been a team for so long. Meredith is Peter’s best friend, even it’s weird to say something like that out loud. What the fuck would he do if -? Peter shuts the thought down.

On a late November evening, the phone rings. The X-Files episode Meredith had taped is beginning to freak him out a bit, so Peter leaves Meredith muttering about Special Agent Scully’s narrow mindedness to answer. “Hello?”

“Hello, can I speak to Peter Quill?”

“Speaking,” Peter says.

“Hello, Peter. This is Bob Mancini. I’m an assistant coach with the USA Hockey development program.”

“Oh.” Peter’s heart starts to thump. He has an idea what’s coming and now he wishes he’d just let the phone ring. “Wow. How can I help you, sir?”

“Well, more like, you might be able to help us, Peter. As you know, the World Under-17 Hockey Challenge is coming up. It’s taking place over the holidays up in Red Deer, Alberta this year, and your name came up as a possibility to be one of our goaltenders.”

“That’s.” Peter swallows and tries to sound enthusiastic. “That’s great. Thank you for considering me.” It is great. Out of who knows how many goalies, they’re calling him? It’s a dream come true. Except…

“So what I wanted to know, is if you’d like to try out for a spot on Team USA. We usually have three goalies, but the competition for a place is stiff. Anyway, development camp will be held in -”

“Sir,” Peter interrupts. “Mr. Mancini. I -” The words dry up. Peter squeezes his eyes closed. “Thank you. But I can’t.”

There’s a puzzled silence. “Is there a scheduling problem? You have prior commitments? I have to tell you, it’s a huge opportunity you’d be missing out on.”

Peter leans to peek into the living room, where blue light washes over Meredith’s thin face. “I know. I’m sorry. But my mother has cancer. She’s undergoing treatment right now, and… and I can’t leave her.” The kitchen goes quiet. Meredith must have paused the tape, waiting for him to finish talking.

“Surely she’d understand. There must be family -”

Peter curls over the receiver, dropping his voice. “There’s no one else. I’m all she’s got, until my grandparents come down for Christmas.”

“What about close friends? You know it’s your last year to be eligible to play U-17, don’t you?”

Peter’s knuckles whiten on the receiver. God, he wants to say yes, to take this chance. But what if something happens while he’s gone? Meredith’s been honest with him about her progress, that the response to treatment hasn’t effective as the doctors would like. He clutches the phone harder. “I know,” he says. “And I really want to go. You have no idea how much. But I can’t.”

“Well, Peter, that’s some admirable moral fortitude you’ve got there,” Mancini says. “I’m sorry as well - I was quite interested to see what you had to show us.”

“Yeah.”

“My best wishes for your mother’s recovery, then.” Mancini sounds more brisk. _Probably has the next name on the list to call_ , Peter thinks bitterly.

“Thank you for calling.” Peter hangs up. He braces his hands on the wall, head dropping. His stomach churns. God. He knows he made the right choice, but he can’t help feeling that he’s missing out. Fuck, he _knows_ he is - getting exposure in an international tournament is huge, especially if he wants to move ahead in hockey. He draws in a shaky breath and blows it out hard. The fights he used to get into as a kid hadn’t hurt as much as doing the right thing now.

“Peter?” Meredith gives him a quizzical look as he drops next to her on the couch. “Who was that?”

“Guy named Mancini,” Peter says. “An invite to a tournament. I’m not going.”

“First time I think I’ve heard you turn down an opportunity to play,” she says. “You sure? Why were they calling you and not your coach?”

“The tournament’s over Christmas break,” Peter says, ignoring the second question. “Grandma and Grandpa are going to be here.”

“Peter, don’t be silly,” Meredith says. “Don’t worry about us. You should go if you want to. Call them back, say you’ll go.”

“I already said no, okay?” he says. His voice is sharper than it ought to be, his disappointment creeping into his tone. He tries again. “I don’t wanna miss Christmas with you.”

Meredith is quiet a moment. “All right, baby.”

He picks up the remote control. “What did I miss?”

“Scully got kidnapped by Schnauz. I think it’s lobotomy time for her,” Meredith says.”I swear, I don’t know why she and Mulder are partners, he’s never there when she’s in trouble.”

“Gotta have drama,” Peter says. “Can we watch _Baywatch_ after this, though? I’m gonna have nightmares without some Pamela Lee Anderson to keep them off.”

“Oh, well, don’t we all want dream Pamela Lee fighting monsters for us. But you know I’d rather have Duchovny.” Meredith elbows him and smirks at his yelp. “Sure thing, kiddo. Come on, roll the tape, I can’t handle the suspense.”

It’s a close call, but in the end, Mulder rescues Scully from certain death, so Peter guesses that’s what counts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter was a relentless downer, I really am. But it needed to be done. Ditto for probably tedious details on Canadian health care or cancer treatment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's good when Peter's grandparents come to St. Louis to help lighten the load. But it's not good when word about his mom's condition gets out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update on the heels of yesterday's, as I'll be on vacation with sporadic internet for a while, and won't be able to update this Sunday.
> 
> Note - since I'm setting the fic in real life hockey world, actual players will be referenced. In some cases, (though not in this fic) I will be replacing real and no doubt beloved players with characters from the story. I actually don't know whose place on the Habs or the Canadian World Juniors team Ronan MacKree is taking, but I apologize to them. Likewise, when Peter makes a team and will replace a (probably one of my fav) famous goalie - sorry! Sorry! It's an AU, and sacrifices must be made!

Round four of chemo is the worst yet. Meredith can barely move from the couch for two days, complaining that her chest feels tight. The aching and general nausea grow worse, along with fits of coughing. Peter’s concern spikes into panic when Meredith tells him they need to get to the hospital. And he knows he should be careful, he _knows_ , but with his mom bundled up beside him, lips so pale as to look blue, he goes faster than he should. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck,” he says under his breath when he sees the flashing lights behind. Meredith’s sigh has a whistling sound to it, but she makes no comment on his language.

The officer looks at his intermediate permit and the car registration papers before passing them back. “You say you’re going to Mercy Hospital? If it’s not an emergency, why you drivin’ so fast?”

Meredith’s voice is strained and wheezy. “I’m not in immediate danger, but it’s serious. Trust me, I’m a nurse, I’d know.”

“Huh.” The officer scratches his nose. “Peter Quill. You know that if I issue you a ticket -”

“I don’t care,” Peter says, and bites his tongue. “Sir. My mom’s doing chemo and it’s doing a number on her. So if you could just give me the ticket, I’d… I just wanna get her to the hospital.”

Meredith breaks into a fit of coughing that bends her double and leaves her gasping. Peter tightens his grip on the steering wheel, scared and furious.

The police officer is quiet a long moment. “Quill. You play hockey? I know that name.”

Peter stares up at him. “Yeah, I do. Junior Blues.”

The officer nods. “Good team. My sister’s son plays with the Young Guns. You’re that hot shot young goalie the league’s talking ‘bout?” He closes his ticketing book. “Well, Quill, I’m letting you off with a warning this time. Special treat, seeing as how it’s gonna be Christmas in a week. Drive slower, we don’t anyone gettin’ hurt.”

“Yessir,” Peter says. “Thank you.”

“Maybe I’ll see you next game,” the police officer says. “Take care now.” He taps the roof of the car and turns away.

At the hospital, Peter lets the nurses take his mom away and sinks into a seat, exhausted. The bustle of the waiting areas of hospitals is an old familiarity from when he was a kid waiting for his mother to finish work. Now he closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall and waits.

“Peter? Your mom wants to see you.” Candance, an older nurse he’s known forever leads him to her bed. Meredith is propped up, an IV stand at her side and oxygen mask over her face. Peter’s never seen her like this before - she’s been taking her treatments while he’s at school. He’s frozen until she holds a hand out for him.

“Baby.” He jolts into motion, takes her thin hand. “I’m going to be staying overnight, maybe longer while they run some tests. It’s probably just a bad cold, but they need to make sure it’s not a lung infection or pneumonia.”

He rubs her knuckles with his thumb, not quite looking at her. He nods.

“Candace is going to ride back with you and call her husband from our house. You going to be okay by yourself?”

He forces a smile to his face. “Yeah. It’s gonna be party time. School’s out, after all.” Her chuckle is wet and strange. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll take the bus in to see you tomorrow. Bring you a trashy romance or something.”

“Sure thing, babe,” she says, breath misting her mask. “If you can, change out the sheets on my bed and yours? Mom and Dad are flying in from Toronto the day after tomorrow.”

Peter hasn’t forgotten. “No problem. I’ve got this.” He leans in to brush a kiss over her forehead. “Get better. Love you.”

Candace is considerate enough to keep conversation light and inconsequential while Peter drives her to his house and waits for her husband to pick her up. As soon as the door closes, Peter calls Josh, hands trembling with the urge to punch something. “Dude?” Josh says. “It’s a kinda late, what’s up?” Peter can hear the rustle of clothing, Asuka’s voice asking a question. Peter tangles the cord of the old phone in his fingers, shoulders stiff.

“Nothing. I just wondered - you want to hang out tonight?” Peter says. “But if you’re busy…”

“Well, actually, dude -” Josh starts but there’s a scuffling noise and Asuka takes over. Her voice is bright and sharp. “ _Actually,_ I can speak for myself, thanks, lover boy.” Peter winces on Josh’s behalf. “What’s up, Star-Lord?” The use of his D &D character name is mocking but kind.

“Mom’s at Mercy. I’ve got the house to myself tonight. And I thought -” That he didn’t want to be alone. Asuka’s smart, he knows she can catch what’s unsaid.

“Knowing you, you need to finish up Christmas decorations, of course. We’ll make cookies. And have a Double Dragon throwdown. And we’re gonna crash there, and you’ll make us breakfast. Because you need our help.” she says. It’s not a question.

“The tree’s already up,” he says feebly.

“So that’s a yes to the rest of it,” she says with satisfaction. “We’ll be there in twenty.” Josh starts to protest and Peter grimaces at the sound of a smacking kiss. “Fine. Don’t be whiner, Josh. Thirty minutes, Peter” Asuka says.

“Great,” Peter says. “See you guys in a bit.” He hangs up. In the living room, he plugs in the lights of their small artificial Christmas tree and lets himself drop to the floor, cross-legged. The ornaments they’ve collected over the years sparkle, and he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes until he sees sparks.

 _Thank God Grandma and Grandpa are coming_ , is all he can think, and pushes down the sick twist of guilt. He can’t do this alone anymore. It’s not the cooking or keeping the house clean. It’s just - everything is so fucked up. And it’s more fucked up that he’s angry about it, angry his mom is so sick, like it’s her fault. But he can’t. Can’t go on pretending it’s going to be okay, being cheerful every fucking minute. His chest tightens convulsively, his nails bite into his palms, but his eyes remain dry. And when Josh and Asuka knock, he lets them in, and doesn’t smile unless he means it all night.

 

Christmas with Grandma and Grandpa Quill is subdued. Peter’s relegated to an air mattress on the floor of his room. Meredith gave up her room for her parents and no way was Peter letting his mom take the couch. Meredith is released from the hospital, wan and still coughing and Peter feels a sort of savage satisfaction at the dismay in his grandparent’s faces at her condition. _You see? This is what I’ve been dealing with. Where were you?_ It’s not fair, he knows, because it hadn’t been that bad until last week.

The cancer isn’t responding as well as it should be, and the chemotherapy is being extended for two more cycles. The news only makes Peter numb. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Meredith was supposed to get better, return to being her usual laughing, outgoing self. He withdraws. He goes back to hanging with friends after school. Grandma Janine tries to bring it up once, but Meredith stops her. “Let him. It’s good for him to do normal things.” Peter burns with guilt, but doesn’t argue. And life goes on in a tilted way - but it’s Grandpa picking him up after practice when Meredith is too tired. It’s Grandma Peter helps out in the kitchen, cutting up vegetables and washing dishes.

It’s not all terrible. One of the best part of the holiday watching the World Juniors tournament with a whole family of hockey lovers. Josh’s family have a premium cable network package and he tapes the games for Peter. Listening to his grandpa forget himself and start cussing at the screen is _awesome._

“Greg,” his grandma chides. “Peter’s here.”

“Oh, Petey’s heard it all before,” Greg grumbles. “He’s a hockey player, wouldn’t be surprised if he can swear a blue streak.”

“Can neither confirm nor deny,” Peter says. Meredith laughs.

“No point getting worked up about the game, Dad. It’s not even live.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Greg says, but subsides.

Peter loves watching the nations battle it out, but at the same time he’s also analysing players, the way they pass and shoot, idiosyncrasies like a tendency to crash the net - patterns, strengths, weaknesses. In the USA vs Canada final game, he endures teasing as the only person rooting for America. “Come on,” he says. “Someone has to be on their side. Oh, man look at that!” He cheers as Team USA’s goalie, Boucher, blocks a shot and slides across the crease to kick a rebound shot away from Daniel Brière. “Nice!”

“He is good, isn’t he?” Janine says. “And the other boy, too. Very cute, that Brière. Great hands.” She makes a noise that suggests his stick-handling is the least of his attractions.

Peter savors Meredith’s howl of, “Mom!” as Greg chuckles. “Nice one, Grandma.” She’s right - Brière _is_ cute, in a sleepy, bedroom-eyed way. Not that Peter’s ever going to say that out loud.

“It’s a knack you never lose,” Janine says, smirking at Meredith. “Embarrassing your kids.”

“Oh, better watch out, America, Babcock’s sending out the third line,” Greg says, patting Peter’s arm. Peter bites off his own curse. “Wish the Leafs had managed to get that MacKree in the draft. Damned Habs. And he’s only eighteen?”

Ronan MacKree, for all that he’s playing third line, _is_ exceptional, Peter has to admit. He’s the tallest guy on the ice, and blows away any assumptions about big guys being slow or only good on defence. His stride eats up the ice, and his puck handling is fucking gorgeous. Peter bites his lip as MacKree takes a hard check, but only banks the puck off his own skate back to his stick to make a hard pass to his center. Huh. Solid on his skates. Peter ignores the excited commentary his family makes as the play unfolds.

The goal attempt is foiled and the Team USA defenders send the puck back up. Peter whistles. Impressive speed. And - oh, that had to hurt. A run at MacKree ended with him bracing and twisting into the check, the other player bouncing off and sliding on his backside. “Why isn’t he a d-man?” he wonders aloud.

“I know!” Greg says. “One man wrecking ball. I’d say he’d be perfect playing with the Bruins but - oh, here we go.” He thumps Peter’s shoulder. MacKree almost makes a breakaway, but an American defender is with him, fighting for the puck all the way into the corner. MacKree gets it free, sweeps behind the goal, fakes a pass and tries for a wrap-around shot. Boucher is on to him, though, and Peter cheers.

“Suck it, MacKree!” he yells. Meredith coughs, and Peter hunches a little. “Whoops. Sorry. Boucher’s a wizard, though.”

“Eh,” says Greg. “MacKree should’ve passed, that was a missed chance. Boucher read him like a book. No good for his teammates if MacKree goes Lone Ranger-ing. But he’s still young. He’ll learn.”

“Maybe,” Peter says. Good to know MacKree wasn’t a perfect hockey machine. Pretty much the reverse, judging by the furious disappointment on his handsome face. But if Peter’s good enough, he might be playing MacKree someday. Man, that’d be awesome, making the international stage.

The game ends. Peter sulks as Canada accepts their gold and Team USA their silver. But his mom is smiling so he supposes it’s all right.

 

“Move!” Peter uses his blocker to shove the winger blocking his view, who only shifts back to his original place, screening Peter. “Get the fuck out of my crease!”

“Make me, you little shit,” the player - Burke, by his jersey - says. The Young Guns game has been chippy and hard-fought, the Blues’ defense getting caught off-guard too often and leaving Peter open to shot after shot. There are too many players getting all up in his space. He fucking hates trying to track the play through bodies, every goalie does. The Guns are trying to rattle him. But the Blues are down 3-2, and the Guns have all the momentum behind them. He’s gotta maintain his focus. If he could just _move_ this lump of beef _…_

The kid’s practically in his grill now and Peter darts a quick look around him at the play. Someone shouts and there’s the puck, it’s going wide, he can tell. Allan is following, trying to sweep it away from the goal. But Burke is moving to get his stick on it, he’s still got his skates in Peter’s crease and he’s fair game. Peter angles his stick to be sure the puck doesn’t go in off an accidental deflection and straightens up from his crouch, popping his shoulder into the seat of Burke’s breezers. It lifts Burke off his skates and sends him sprawling on his face. _Oops_ , almost like an accident. Allan scoops the puck up and flies up the ice. “Cherry-pick somewhere else, you pigeon,” Peter tells the downed player. The whistle blows for an off-side and Burke picks himself up, face red.

“Eat shit and die,” Burke snarls.

Peter lifts his chin in mocking challenge. “Ow, that hurts.”

“Oh, my bad,” Burke says, skating away. “Guess I’ll just leave the dropping dead thing to your mom.”

It’s like a bucket of icy water has been dumped over him. “What?” Peter says. But the lines are changing, taking their places for a face-off in the neutral zone. The puck is dropped and the Blues manage to start an offensive play in the other direction. On the Young Gun’s bench, Peter can see Burke lean over, saying something to his teammates. His face turns in Peter’s direction. He grins.

Peter lets another goal in, and slams his stick on the ice in frustration. Thank god his mom’s not in the stands watching him lose the game. It’s only his grandfather today. A Guns player mimes a boo-hoo gesture at him. “Aw, don’t cry, lil goalie. I guess when it’s your time…” He grunts as Butters pushes him away from Peter. The linesman is between them before they start scrapping. _Fuck,_ Peter thinks. _Fuck._ All the chirps he’s heard, all the shit he’s had slung at him - for being young, being small, being a smart-ass, and worst of all, for being too talented, and they’ve found the thing he can’t brush off. He can feel his concentration unravelling, and all he can think of is how pissed he is. _Those fuckers, those fucking fuckers._

It’s not helping that his d-men are still dropping the ball. _Why the fuck can’t they keep these guys off me?_ The Young Guns are wolves circling wounded prey. His blocks are getting sloppier as his fury builds, with every side-long look, every smirk, with Burke’s whispered commentary, too low for the refs to hear. “So sorry your mom’s going to kick it.” “Get you next time, Little Orphan Goalie.” “Too bad, she was pretty bangable, huh?”

Peter’s hands are trembling when the Guns pick up a botched pass and swarm back in a two-on-one. Peter squares up to the first shot, the puck bouncing from his chest padding before he can trap it. And then there’s a bright pain in his jaw and neck as the second Young Guns forward crashes into him, Butters riding the other player into the goal. Peter’s skates go out from under him and the back of his helmet hits something hard that rings like a bell, snapping his head forward. Peter lands with the guy on top. Stars explode in his vision. Dazed, he feebly pats at the ice with his catcher as if he can still get the puck.

“Shit, shit!” The other player gets off him. “You okay?”

“What?” Peter blinks, and rolls to his side. The goal net has been knocked from its moorings, and the goal light is on. _Shit_. Are they going to call goalie interference? He hopes so, they _gotta_. He slowly pushes himself up, and the arena tilts. He slings an arm over the net to keep himself from tipping over. He shakes his head, and no, the way his vision is sliding isn’t good. “You fucking crashed the net,” he tells the Young Guns player nonsensically, as if it weren’t obvious. His wavering gaze skips over the guy’s concerned face, Butters reaching out to pat his shoulder, and settles on Burke. The other attacker, of course, it would be fucking Burke. And Peter’s _had_ it. He's not letting that asshole just skate away.

Peter pushes off the net, all his fury concentrating into one hard hack with his heavy goalie stick at the back of Burke’s knees. But his aim is fucked, and he gets Burke’s calves instead. Burke goes down like a felled tree. Peter is immediately dragged away by the other Guns player who is yelling in his face. The guy disappears as Butters yanks him off Peter, leaving him off-balance. The linesman is gesturing at Peter to stay back, stay out of it. He _would_ , but every player on the ice is pairing up for a line brawl and Peter has a new dancing partner bullying him into the boards.

“You fucker!” the guy shouts and rabbits two punches into the side of Peter’s helmet. The jabs don’t hurt, they only rock his head and make him dizzy. Dizzier. Peter’s lost his blocker and trapper somewhere. When did that happen? He fists his hands into the player’s jersey, pulling him close to try and trap his arms and ducks his head into his chest to keep his helmet from being knocked off.

“He started it,” Peter yells. “You know he started it.” But his voice is lost in the sound of whistles, roars from the crowd and shouts. The arena lurches again, and maybe it would be nice to slide down the boards, pulling this guy on top of him. _Yeah._ But the shift from vertical to horizontal has bile rising up his throat and he gags, stomach muscles contracting.

“Off,” he manages. “Ger’off. Gonna puke.” The Guns player shifts back as Peter retches. He's just in time to wrench his helmet free and turn to his side before the first hot surge reaches his throat. His head feels like it’s going to explode. He vomits again, stomach clenching hard enough to pinch.

“Christ, kid,” says the referee, skating over. “Stay down.” He waves an arm at the Blues’ bench.

“I hardly touched him,” the Guns player protests.

“Son, ask me if I give two good goddamns right now. Move back and don’t start anything else,” the ref growls. “I’ll settle your hash in a minute.”

Peter spits once to clear his mouth and hangs his head a moment, panting, eyes closed. “Killer?” someone asks in a tentative tone. “You okay?”

Peter looks up at the ref and the circle of players in a loose semi-circle around him, their scuffles finished. “M’fine. S’not that bad.”

Coach Scotty and the arena EMT run-slide to bend over him. “Where does it hurt?” the medic asks.

“Head,” Peter says. His neck is throbbing, too, but it’s nothing compared to his head. His gorge is rising again and he swallows hard. “I think… my head hit the goal post?” He doesn't mean to sound questioning, but he's not sure what happened. Butters nods.

“Yeah. Your head bounced right off. I think you might've whacked it again on the ice when you went down.”

“Well, crap,” Scotty says. “You need a stretcher, or can you skate?”

No way he’s getting stretchered off, he’d rather die. “I’ll skate. Just get me off the ice.”

He’s escorted off the ice, supported by Allan and Butters. He’s seen others helped off before; it’s the first time it’s happened to him. He concentrates on the feel of his teammates’ sturdy shoulders under his arms and doesn’t look up, as scattered applause and boos follow him out.

God, he fucked up. He doesn’t even want to think about the penalties his team is going to have to kill. There’s no way they can come back from this without a miracle.

Greg meets Peter in the first aid room and watches, grim, as the EMT goes through a concussion protocol with him. The medic notes Peter rubbing his neck and after a few more questions, hands him an ice pack. The period ends and Coach Scotty joins them. “You’re Peter’s grandfather?” he asks. Greg nods.

“Take him to a hospital for further assessment,” the medic says. “Looks like a grade one concussion, but you say that kid knocked him into the boards and punched him on top of a double impact? We’re lucky he's not worse. And get the neck x-rayed - probably whiplash injury but better safe than sorry.” Scotty swears softly. The medic pats Peter’s shoulder and leaves the room, door closing on a thick silence. Scotty sits on a folding chair opposite Peter.

“I don’t want to keep you, Peter, so just give me the short story. I know the Young Guns can be rough customers, but you’ve never gone off like that before.”

Peter doesn’t look at his coach. “Just some chirping.”

Scotty tilts his head, an indication to go on.

“About my mother.” That’s as much as Peter wants to say. Greg shifts in the edge of his vision.

“Yeah? You know how players are,” Scotty says. “Thought you could deal with that.”

Peter clenches his jaw. Scotty waits, then sighs. “Well. You’re young.” The unspoken accusation that Peter’s not mature enough to handle chirping stings. “It doesn’t look good, Peter, you going after another player that way. Wasn’t even the kid who knocked you into the goal.” Scotty’s tone is firm. “Is that all you’ve got to say? You know the League will be looking into this. It’ll probably end in a suspension.” Peter hunches his shoulders in his sweat-cooled pads and keeps his tongue still. He’s not going to spill his guts, he’s not some weak whiner, he’s _not-_

It’s Greg who finally does it, breaks Peter’s egg-shell protection of his hockey-life with ugly reality. “My daughter has cancer,” Greg says. “It… hasn’t been going as well as it could. She’s been very ill recently.” Scotty casts Greg such an incredulous look that Greg hesitates before continuing. “I see you didn’t know.”

Scotty’s voice is odd when he answers. “No. No idea. I’m real sorry to hear that.” He turns back to Peter. “You never said.”

“I…” He couldn’t. He didn’t want to. Didn’t want to lose his place starting games because people would naturally think the mental strain would affect his performance, as if he hadn’t been fucking proving himself the past two months. Didn't want anyone's pity. Peter settles on what is also the truth. “I didn’t want the guys treating me differently.”

Greg’s hand is a dimly-felt weight on his shoulder pads. Scotty clears his throat. “Peter. Were they being… generally insulting, or did they say something about… your mother’s situation specifically? Keep in mind that the League will take that under consideration.”

There’s a code, with chirping. _What’s said on the ice, gets left on the ice. You don’t tell anyone that isn’t on your team who said what._ Peter knows this. But…

 _Fuck_ the code. Burke was the one who’d made it personal. “Yeah. Yeah, they were pretty specific. Burke started it.” Peter’s face feels stiff, but he can feel the blood rising in his cheeks. “He started it, and I finished it, and if anyone says shit like that to me again, I’ll fucking kill them. Okay?” His voice is rising and he can’t stop. “Want me to repeat everything? What they said about Mom dying? Well, I _don’t want to!”_ Pain lances through his head. He winces and closes his mouth.

Scotty’s voice is unexpectedly gentle. “Not right now. Maybe not ever, unless the League kicks up a fuss. We can use this. Okay.” He stands up, jaw set. “I’m going to rip the Guns’ coach a new one after the game. They had no right to say that. No right to try and use that against you.”

“What I want to know,” Greg says, voice overly loud, “is how these kids found out about Meredith’s illness. Peter says he never told you. The drive up here took over an hour, and I don’t think gossip spreads that far.”

Peter’s lips curve into a mean smile. “Easy. Find out who on the Young Guns has an uncle on the St. Louis police force.” At Scotty’s questioning look Peter clarifies. “I got stopped for speeding, taking Mom to the hospital. He knew who I was, said his nephew played for the Guns. It’s probably Burke.” Screw that guy. It’s not like Peter’s throwing him under a bus. More like, Burke threw himself there by being a jackass, if you thought about it. Peter hopes the forward’s legs are bruised enough to take him out of a few games, at the very least.

Scotty nods. “Okay. I'll find out. I need to go, next period’s about to start. Get changed and get your butt to a hospital, Quill. We’ll talk more about this later. Mr. Quill, I don’t need to tell you to take care of your boy.” He smiles at Peter. “Oh, by the way - your Ron Hextall stunt lit a fire under our guys. Scored two after you left, one short-handed. Don’t make it a habit, though. Our penalty killing isn’t all that good, as you well know. They rely on you too much, Peter.” He leaves.

Greg helps Peter to his feet, arm around his shoulders as Peter lists to the side. “Let’s go, Petey. I gotcha.” Peter leans against him, still clutching the ice pack to his neck as they make their way to the locker room. “You really never told anyone on your team about Meredith?” Greg asks. His voice is more curious than condemning.

Peter starts to shake his head, decides against it as his stomach churns. “No. I just…” He doesn’t want to sound like a selfish asshole, but it’s probably too late for that. “I just wanted this - hockey - to be the same as it always was. You know?” He hopes Greg understands, he isn’t up to articulating more than that.

“I get it,” Greg says. “It’s been pretty rough for you, hasn’t it, taking care of your mother all by yourself. Janine and I should have come down sooner.”

“You’re here now,” Peter says. It’s scant consolation to give. It’s all he has. He’s so fucking tired right now, and his head is killing him. “I’m glad you’re here,” he manages.

“Good.” Greg deposits him on the bench and kneels to start unbuckling Peter’s leg pads. It makes Peter feel strange - no one but his mom has ever done this for him since he was a kid. “We’re all very proud of you, you know. I can see why you have such big dreams, wanting to go pro - you’ve got real talent. But your mom’s your biggest fan.”

Peter drop his ice pack on the bench to strip out off his jersey. “Don’t think she’s going to be thrilled when she hears about this,” he mutters.

“About you getting concussed? No, I don’t think she’ll be a fan of that, as a mother or a nurse,” Greg says. “But she’ll understand. It’s hockey.”

And Meredith loves hockey, and loves Peter, and even when money was tight and her time was short, she’s always supported him. It’s been them and their game for as long as Peter can remember. “Yeah,” Peter says, voice rough. His lips pull into a grin for Greg's sake. “It’s what we’ve got, me and Mom. She gets it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still on the angst-mobile for Peter, but with more hockey, at least! Which is rough but fun in its own idiomatic way.
> 
> Ron Hextall - a great goalie but boy did he get frustrated sometimes. Very combative, kind of a dirty player, which is unusual for goalies. The slash referenced is: 
> 
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=vbAEj8o1SY8


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changes come, whether Peter wants them or not.

Peter grins at Meredith, who’s lying on the couch with a paperback. “Got something for you.”

Meredith drops the book to her chest and eyes him. Her hair’s been growing back fine and curly since her sixth and last round of chemo, and it’s puffing out around her head like a dandelion. She looks elfin, and it’s with some sense of accomplishment in his own cleverness that Peter hands her a set of Tinkerbell wings.

“Oh, my God.” Meredith sits up, wrinkling her nose, but her lips twitch. “You punk. You know I had to get a pixie cut out of self defense. But this?” She takes the wings, thumb rubbing over glue dots sprinkled with glitter. “Are these _my_ pantyhose?”

Peter shifts. “Well…”

“And I guess these would be our wire hangers too.” She pins him with an admonitory stare. He holds himself still, determined not to shuffle guiltily. She breaks first, snorting a laugh. “You are too much, kid.”

“Hey.” He lifts a shoulder, returning the smile. “Just celebrating the return of the blonde. Like, you know?”

“Totally,” she ripostes in her best Valley Girl. “Is it time?”

In answer he dangles the car keys. Meredith groans and levers herself up. “Feels like I’m living at the hospital anymore. Still. It’ll be good to get back to full time work. Switch things up for normal life.”

Peter huffs a laugh, but honestly, he feels the same. The radiation treatment isn’t as bad as the chemo, though Meredith’s thyroid gland is screwed up and she needs more medication to help regulate her temperature. But it feels like some kind of corner has been turned. “Grandma, we’re heading out now,” he calls.

“Okay,” Janine calls from the kitchen. “Don’t forget an extra sweater for your mother.”

Peter looks at Meredith who only rolls her eyes. “I’m fine,” she calls back. “I’m wrapped up to the eyeballs.” She pulls on a beanie with a sharp gesture. Amazing. Even his mom can get turned into a sulky teen in the presence of parents. Peter opens the front door but his hand slips as Meredith pushes past, fairy wings in hand.

“Uh. Mom? You’re not bringing those… are you?”

“Why, Peter.” Meredith turns and walks backwards in front of him, her lips turned up. “How can I pass up the opportunity to show everyone these? I haven’t had the chance to show off anything my darling boy has made since you were scribbling crayon Wayne Gretzkies.”

 _Shit._ “Okay… cool,” he says. “Yeah. Go and ahead and show them.” _Please don’t, please don’t…_

“Show? Psht. Weak. I’m wearing these babies, and telling everyone you made them for me.” Meredith closes the car door with a firm click. Her smile has turned manic.

“You are evil. Actual evil,” Peter says wonderingly. All the nurses are going to coo at him. He can feel the flush rising up his neck as if in anticipation of the embarassment to come. “If I just say, yeah, you win this round, will you leave them in the car?”

“Not a chance,” Meredith says. She waves a hand imperiously. “Drive, Jeeves.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Peter sighs.

 

 

“Aw, yeah,” Peter says as the waitress places the plate in front of him. The whipped cream and strawberries wobble and then collapse as Peter attacks his waffle with gusto. Greg shakes his head and tucks into his own banana crepe with more decorum.

“Teenagers,” he says.

“You going to miss providing for the bottomless pit?” Meredith asks her mother. Janine’s eyes crinkle.

“It’s no hardship cooking for such an appreciative audience.” She sighs. “You sure you don’t want us to stay a bit longer?”

Meredith waves a fork in negation. “No, we’ll be good, Mom. Really. How’s your waffle?”

Janine accepts the change of topic and the conversation changes to a desultory discussion of the merits of American chain restaurants versus Canadian ones. With Meredith’s radiation therapy done and her return to work, Grandma and Grandpa Quill are heading back to Mississauga. This last dinner is their treat, and Meredith had insisted on her and Peter’s favored Waffle House for what she insists on calling “The End-Of-Misery Waffle Feast”. It’s great, perfect, really. Peter can feel the gloom of the last few months lifting with every syrup-laden mouthful.

Well, not perfect, maybe. The doctors are being extra cautious and Meredith needs to go back in every two weeks for check-ups. And hockey - well, hockey could be better. Peter managed to dodge a suspension for slashing Burke. But he missed three weeks because of the stupid concussion. Three weeks of miserable headaches and his mom and grandparents watching him like hawks. Matty, the Blues’ other goaltender, had done well enough starting games. But when Coach Scotty had started alternating Peter into every other game, it… hadn't gone great. Peter stabs at a strawberry vindictively. It squirts away to land on the table and Greg furrows his brow at him.

“Sorry. Was just thinking about last Saturday,” Peter says. Greg nods.

“Don’t keep picking at a bad game,” he says. “They happen, kiddo. Put it behind you.”

“Do my best,” Peter says. He’s gotta. The Blues won regionals, but it wasn’t due to Peter’s presence in net. His team had just out-scored the others, thank God. With the worst of his mom’s illness over, all that tension Peter’d had wound inside like a clock spring has just… broken, and his play’s been all over the place. It makes him doubt himself, which in turn pisses him off, which makes things worse. It sucks, because there are still scouts out there, watching games. He gives himself a mental shake to give his grandpa a reassuring grin. “I’ll win the next one for you guys, yeah? Shut them out.”

“That’s the spirit,” Greg says. “Only sorry we won’t be there to see it.”

“Me too,” Peter says, and means it. “It’s been awesome having you here. I’m gonna miss you guys.”

“Only until we come up for summer vacation,” Meredith says to stave off the growing mist in Janine’s eyes.

“Yeah!” Peter agrees. “Bacon. Canadian bacon, Grandma!” Janine laughs and they finish up their desserts in good cheer.

 

 

Peter’s recent mediocre play is still on his mind when Yondu Udonta calls.

“Hey, kid,” Yondu says in his gravelly twang. An NHLPA certified agent and ex-hockey player, Yondu had given Peter his card when Peter was still fifteen. Since then, they've touched base every month or so. “How’re things? How’s your lovely mother been?”

Peter rolls his eyes. He can practically see the gold-toothed sly smile flashing in Yondu’s dark face. “Been a lot better since she finished up treatments.” Honestly, Yondu’s casual flirting with Meredith would be so much weirder if Peter didn’t know how much it amused his mom. “Me, not so great lately. With my games, I mean.”

“Your regular season save percentage is, what again? Oh point nine?” Yondu asks.

“Nine one eight,” Peter corrects. “I - it slipped a bit. And we’ve got the championship coming up.” Yondu makes whistling noise through his teeth.

“Right. Here’s the thing, kid. A coupla bad games ain’t gonna sink you, kid. But pick up your game if you can. Do whatever it takes. Don’t wanna look like you’re a choker when it comes to post-season.”

Peter winces. His worst nightmare. “How’re things looking on your end?” Peter says instead. Since Peter’s still an amateur, Yondu’s acting as a family advisor. Yondu’s comments about Peter’s future prospects heading into a bottle-neck makes Peter’s stomach twist. It’s crunch time, and they have to decide whether Peter’s better off staying in St. Louis at AAA level, working for a college scholarship. Or there’s the chance of his getting into the Canadian Hockey League right away and starting a professional career. It’d kill his eligibility for American scholarships, but at least with major junior contracts, Peter would finish high school and even get tuition for university or college while he's playing.

“Still throwing out bait,” Yondu says. “The CHL is so lazy, they cherry pick from the damn northern leagues. Huge ol’ blind spot for talent down south. With you, I wanna prove them wrong.” His chuckle is raspy. “Even if it means they send down more scouts as competition. I jus’ want to rub some noses in it.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Peter says.

“You’re entirely welcome,” Yondu says magnanimously. “Wanted to talk with your mother about the college route. Wouldn’t be bad to keep your options open, get more seasoning.”

“Yeah. Here she is.” Peter hands the phone over to his mother. The college hockey season doesn’t have _that_ many games, and Peter longs for the high level of play he could get in major juniors. He’s gained some fame locally with his play this season, judging from the shit talk he gets from his opponents and their supporters. He doesn’t let it get to him much - it’s a backhanded compliment to his skills. But in the meantime? He’s got to straighten out his game and get himself _noticed._

Peter watches Meredith talking animatedly, only half-listening. She catches his eye and lifts a brow. Peter shakes his head, mouths, ‘It’s nothing.’ She nods, and gives him a bright smile before asking Yondu another question. Peter turns to a laundry basket and starts folding clothes. He knows Meredith is on his side for any choice he makes about his future, whether college or pro. His dream is hers - even if playing Major Juniors means he’ll have to move away to another city. Peter’s hand clench on a shirt, and he forces himself to smooth out the wrinkles before setting it down. That - that would be rough.

 

 

Meredith’s unstinting belief in him is what makes it so hard when the Blues finally wash out of the championships in the semi-finals, blown out by a 5-1 loss. It sucked. _Peter_ sucked. Matty had replaced Peter in goal during the second period after he’d let in three goals.

 _Fuck_. To have the season end like this, his second year in a row? Hockey’s a team sport, Peter knows this down to his bones, but he can’t help berating himself for letting the team down. Letting himself down, and his mom, and it’s… just shit.

The mood in the locker room is gloomy, but at least the guys aren’t accusing him of choking, or cracking under pressure as they might have. Peter packs his gear for the last time with his head down as the locker rooms slowly empties. _Should have been better. Wasn’t._ He rests his hands on his knees and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. He’s not going to fucking cry, not here, not now.

“Hey.” Allan stands in front of him, his captain face on. “Pete, don’t blame yourself. No one’s perfect all the time. And what with what’s happening with your mom? I think you did pretty fucking amazing for the team. You’re a big part of the reason we even got here.” Allan looks down, then up, meeting Peter’s gaze, a bit uncomfortable. “You should have told us sooner, you idiot. About your mom. We’d’ve had your back, you know.”

Peter shrugs. “Too big. You know?”

“I guess.” Allan drags him in for a rough hug. Peter is weak enough to want it to go on forever, having Allen’s lean body against his. God, he wants _something_ positive right now, some physical thing where he can just turn his brain off and _feel_. But he can’t, and Allen wouldn’t anyway. He settles for thumping Allan’s muscular back before taking him in a headlock and knuckle-rubbing his head. “Ow! Geez, Quill, see if I try to be nice to you again!” Allan says.

Peter releases him. “You’ll be sweet as pie to me if you want me on the team next year, you liar. Love your goalies, dude.”

“For sure,” Allan says. “If you’re still here, big shot. You’re going places.” Peter flushes at the thought that Allan thinks he might be good enough to move upwards, and gives him a crooked grin.

“Thanks, man.” They bump fists, and their post-season is over.

 

 

He’s in the backyard, practicing shots when Meredith calls him in. Her smile is bright but complex when she hands him the phone receiver. “It’s for you. It’s Mr. Udonta.”

Peter’s heart does a double beat. He takes the phone, squeezing it with a palm gone suddenly sweaty. “Hello? It’s Peter.”

“My boy,” Yondu says in his loud effusive way. Is he pleased? Does he have good news? Peter can’t tell, Yondu always sounds cheerful. “How’re things down your way?”

“Pretty busy with varsity soccer right now. Hockey could’ve been better,” Peter says, in the understatement of the year. “You heard about the Junior Blues getting knocked out of the semi-finals?”

“Rough deal, rough deal,” Yondu says. “Don’t let it get to you, your regular season stats are still stellar enough to impress.”

Peter grimaces. “Yeah. I hope so. It wasn’t - I just hit a bad patch.”

“Can’t be perfect all the time.”

“But I gotta be,” Peter says. “Goalies have to be the best.” Yondu makes a noncommittal noise. Peter waits. Finally he breaks. “So, um. Did you call me to talk about that? To talk hockey?”

“In a way,” Yondu says, and something in his voice sets Peter’s heart beating double-time. It’s April, and Peter knows what that means. He hopes it isn’t a repeat of the call Yondu had given him last year, letting Peter down easy with promises of _Next year, kiddo!_   Yondu clears his throat. “How do you feel about taking a trip to Maple Leaf Gardens?”

 _What?_ “What?” Peter says.

“I know what you’re thinking, _‘Pfft, Yondu, the Leafs didn’t even make the playoffs, why would anyone even bother to go there?’_  Your mother excepted, never met a woman more devoted to such a disappointing team, but ‘nuff said on that." Yondu huffs his disgust at the Leafs. Peter clenches his jaw. If Yondu doesn't stop talking nonsense and get to the point, he's going to start screaming. Yondu continues, "Now, the Gardens, as you probably know, happens to be the place this year -”

“Where they’re having the OHL draft pick,” Peter finishes, lips numb. “I - I made the list?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call long-distance jus’ to chat with you, talented hockey player or not. With your lovely mother, it’s a different story, but -”

Peter isn’t even listening. “I made the list. I made the _list._ ”

“Haven’t I been sayin’ that?” Yondu complains cheerfully. “Yes, son. Peter Jason Quill is on the list of potential draftees for the Ontario Hockey League. You’ll be getting a letter soon, I expect.”

Peter can’t contain himself. He clamps the receiver to his chest and throws back his in a scream of joy. “Yes! Finally!” Laughing, Meredith wrestles the phone away as Peter does a victory-dance, socked feet slipping on kitchen linoleum.

“Yes, yes, he’s still here, he hasn’t been murdered,” Meredith tells Yondu. “Thank you so much. Yes, we’ll be there.” She passes the phone back to Peter.

“I take it you’re pleased, then,” Yondu says, gravelly amusement in his voice. “Damn but if this isn’t one of the pleasanter parts of my work. Well, cuttin’ high price player contracts might be a _bit_ more rewarding…”

Peter’s face hurts, he’s grinning so hard. “I can’t believe it. This is - it’s so awesome.”

“Well, I did tell you I would put the word out about you a bit, maybe waved your stats sheets under a few noses - but you did the hard work yourself, kid. Interested parties have been telling me you move like a cat. So - good job.”

“Thank you, Mr. U- Yondu. Thanks so much.”

“Now, keep in mind that you’ve made the list, and just the list at this point, Peter. Getting picked in the draft itself is a whole ‘nother kettle of fish. You’re coming in as a dark horse, compared to the northern boys.” Peter nods, even though Yondu can’t see it. Yondu continues, “You remember what we’ve discussed before. If it doesn’t happen this year, you’ll be a free agent. You can keep playing triple A, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you get another letter in May to try for a USHL team. Keeps you eligible for those scholarships. Or we can wrangle you an invite to an OHL training camp, find out whether you have what it takes to beat out their draftees and regulars.”

“Uh huh. I know.” It’s hard to even imagine getting passed over in the draft, not when it feels like he’s finally got his foot on the first rung of the ladder. “But I wanna play with the best.”

“Kids, always in a rush,” Yondu says. “Goalies take time, you know.”

“I’m young, I know, blah blah,” Peter says, giddy. “Okay, I promise I’ll try to keep my cool. Thank you for calling.”

“Take care, boy. Keep workin’ those reflexes. Don’t want to hear you got lazy in the off-season.”

“Not me,” Peter says. “And I got moves like Felix the Cat Potvin, didn’t you hear?”

“I know it, smartass, but I gotta give you rookies the benefit of my seasoned advice, don’t I? Bye now.”

Peter hangs up. Meredith’s smile is wide. He whoops again and lunges, throwing his arms around her and lifting her into the air for a wobbling spin around the kitchen. She yelps and thumps him on his shoulders. “Put me down, you galumphing goon!”

He squeezes her once before depositing her against the table. “Come on, if there’s ever been a time for a celly…” He drops to one knee and does the fist-pump of a winger that’s just scored a goal. “Yes!”

She’s laughing. “Ridiculous child. I’m so happy for you.”

“I can’t believe it,” he says again. “It’s happening, Mom. It’s finally happening. I thought -”

“I never doubted it would,” Meredith says. “Haven’t I always always said you’re my little star?” She pulls him up for a hard hug. “So proud of you, kiddo.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Peter says. It’s the simple truth.

She rubs a hand through his hair before pulling back. “Thanks, baby. So - you want to give your grandparents a call, let them know we have a special reason to visit this summer?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. He can’t wait to tell _everyone_.

 

 

“Dude!” Josh says at his news. “That’s amazing!” He’s genuinely pleased for Peter, and they do a complicated high-five sequence. Asuka, leaning against Josh’s side in the school cafeteria, rolls her eyes but offers her congratulations as well.

“Does this mean you’ll be leaving St. Louis?” she asks. Her smile is as wicked as ever. “Not that we’ll miss you and your huge ego here.”

“Liar,” Peter says. “It’s all just self-confidence, Ass-ka.”

She sniffs at the chirp. “Speaking of, there’ll be more space on the couch when we play video games,” she says with a significant look down.

“Please, I happen to know you love hockey thighs,” Peter shoots back and is rewarded with her blush, even though she screws up her mouth. Josh socks him in the shoulder. “Hey! Was talking about yours, of course,” Peter protests.

“Sure, bud,” Josh says. “Man. I can’t even think about you not being around.” His tone is joking but his face is serious. “I mean, I’m glad, and I kinda figured you wouldn’t be here forever. Just. It seems so fast.”

Peter swallows. They’ve been friends since they were five year olds bashing each other with hockey sticks, and he can’t imagine not having Josh around either. “Eh,” he says, faux-casual. “Might not get drafted, you know.”

“False modesty, Star-Lord?” Asuka says. “Where’s that famous confidence?”

“Don’t wanna jinx it,” Peter says. “The scouting reports are good, but… I’m not high on the list.”

“Ah,” Asuka nods. “Superstition. You jocks.”

“Your mom all right with it?” Josh asks, and yeah. There’s the thing.

Peter rubs a finger over the condensation on his can of cola. A drop runs down the side and joins the small puddle on the table. “The thing is… guys. Even if I don’t make the jump, I don’t think I’ll be coming back to St. Louis. Except to visit. My mom hasn’t said, but I think we’re gonna move to Mississauga. Permanently.”

“Mississauga?” Josh says, missing the important point for a stupid one. Asuka jams an elbow into his ribs.

“God, you pinhead. Where his grandparents live? Near _To-_ RON- _to?_ The place he disappears to every summer? It’s like you’re not even his friend!”

“Hey,” Josh says weakly. “I listen. I just confuse Mississauga with, like. Mississippi.”

“The educational system has failed you,” Asuka states. She turns her dark eyes back on Peter. “So listen up now, Josh, my idiot love-muffin. Peter just said he’s _leaving_ us, for probably a very important _non-hockey_ thing, and now he’s going to explain.”

Peter squirms under her gaze. “Um. You can probably guess.”

“Your mom?” Josh says. “Shit.”

Peter sighs. “Right. My mom. And a lot of other stuff, but mostly - yeah.” He clenches his jaw. “The treatment didn’t catch everything. She’s still got Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and what with… how it didn’t respond much… It’s not looking good. She’s got to do a second round of treatment, except… stronger. And it might not work.”

“She can’t do that here?” Josh asks. “I mean, I always figured she was getting top-notch treatment, what with her being a nurse and all.”

“No, everyone was great, all the doctors and nurses,” Peter agrees. “Thing is… it’s money. Insurance stuff. You’d think nurses would have great coverage, but… yeah. So the first round was covered. But the second time, not so much. And with all the days off work… just.” He starts doodling a pattern on the table with the puddled condensation around his soda can. “We can’t afford all of it. Not without - without selling the house.”

“Jesus, dude,” Josh says.

“Fuck,” Asuka says succinctly, and that pretty much sums it up.

”Yeah,” Peter says. “So.” Neither of his friends say anything, which Peter appreciates since it gives him for his throat to loosen up. He stirs. “So, anyway. There’s a new treatment in Toronto. Clinical trials. But Mom knows some people at the hospital, got some strings pulled, and she’s in.”

“But in Canada?” Josh says, dubious.

“Universal healthcare,” Asuka says. “She’d be covered.”

Peter snorts. “Not for like, six months. Fucking stupid, since she’s still Canadian.. So she’ll be staying with my grandparents, save money. But she’s going to start treatment right off.”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t want to wait,” Asuka agrees. “And… that means you’re leaving.”

“Not right away,” Peter says. “Mom wants me to finish out the school year here. My grandpa is coming down to stay with me.” He tries to lighten the mood a bit. “Chez Quill will be a men-only habitation for the next month and a half.”

“Man.” Josh shakes his head but brightens up. “Think he’d be down for hosting some parties? If this is going to be your last semester here -”

Asuka thumps the back of his head. “Not important!”

Peter’s mouth stretches into a faint smile. “Yeah, but… I dunno. I’ll work on him.” He pauses. “I hate this. Feels like everything's ending.” He loves his mom, like, seriously. But the way she’s been talking about his future - like making the roster of an OHL team is going to be a sure thing… Peter doesn’t know. If he’s drafted, he’ll have to leave home - well, leave Meredith. Which will suck. He - _they’ve_ been expecting that. But Meredith is going on like Peter’s life needs to be set and all tied up neatly, his path to the NHL paved. He doesn’t like the feeling that she’s trying to get him ready for a future without her, preparing for the worst. It’s like she’s saying a long goodbye, and Peter is in no fucking way ready for that. He’s not even sure he _wants_ to be drafted, not when Meredith is still sick. But his dream of hockey is hers, too, more than ever and he doesn’t want to disappoint her, not when… well.

“Changing,” Asuka corrects, dragging Peter from his thoughts. “This is not a bad thing. People change. They move on. People even get jobs playing _hockey_ , of all things.” She rolls her eyes, and Josh obligingly laughs.

“Man, I hope so,” Peter says. “Fucking sucks, if we have to sell the house. Won’t be much money for me in the O, but at least the teams pay for all the gear, travel, billeting, you name it.”

“Yeah?” Josh says. “Then you won’t mind scoring me a jersey.”

“Really?” Asuka says as Peter actually laughs. “That’s what you getting from all this?”

“Dude,” Peter says. “If I make it, I totally will, I promise. Home and away colors, one for each of you.” He smirks at them. “If you’re cool wearing my name and number.”

“Oh, yeah, shit,” Josh jokes. “Forgot about that.”

Asuka’s smile is serene. She squeezes Josh’s arm. “I don’t think we’ll mind.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a bit grim and sad, but getting better! And one more chapter to plow through.
> 
> Personally, the whole hockey system is a bit of a nightmare, and making it to the big time is so hard. To all those who had the dream and tried, I salute you, and feel for you if for some reason it didn't happen.
> 
> As per usual, this story is un-beta-proofed. If there is some mistake, weird phrasing or words I left out, please say so. I'd appreciate it.
> 
> Sorry for the delayed update, I didn't do a lick of writing during my month holiday abroad, and this semester is my busiest.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Updates, like before, will be once a week, though I may double-update before I head out on summer vacation.
> 
>  
> 
> SPOILERS: Meredith has Hodgkin's Lymphoma. It gets very bad, and the treatment has a lot of the unpleasant side effects you expect from chemo and radiation treatment, including loss of hair, appetite, tiredness, etc.
> 
> Extra spoilery spoiler, concerning her fate - hover over this text. Or if on mobile, leave a comment and I'll message you back.


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